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She had five hundred new Twitter followers. That was odd. It usually took weeks to accumulate that many new fans. She checked her notifications and suddenly understood why Henry had been in such a panic. There were dozens of tweets and retweets about her new, un-Monica novel—including several requests for interviews, along with encouraging missives from fans. “Can’t wait to bite into yur new book like a big crunchy chocolate chip cookie,” StripeSavage had tweeted.
What? Oh no, Pandy thought. It wasn’t that kind of book. Should she inform StripeSavage? Or leave it alone? She hoped StripeSavage wouldn’t be disappointed.
“Wonder what SondraBeth Schnowzer will think?” another fan had inquired.
To which Pandy was tempted to reply: No need to worry about SondraBeth Schnowzer. This was true. According to Google, SondraBeth was worth eighty million dollars. This Pandy believed, despite the fact that according to Google, she herself was worth the astronomical sum of forty million—when in fact, the truth was at least one decimal point away. This hadn’t stopped Jonny from trying to use this erroneous information against her at the beginning of their divorce, however.
“She’s worth forty million!” Jonny had screamed.
“There is no evidence of this money. There is no record of it in bank statements, tax returns, or payment stubs,” Hiram replied.
“It’s on the internet,” Jonny had retorted.
Pandy shook her head in disgust.
She looked down at her phone and tapped in her usual response regarding SondraBeth: “Luv Her!” followed by three sparkling emoji hearts in Day-Glo colors.
She moved on to her texts. Several friends had sent photos from the party; there were group shots, and one of Pandy lying on the floor with her legs up in the air. There was a close-up of Suzette’s enormous ring, which she in turn had posted to Instalife. The photo had more than ten thousand likes.
And finally, a text from Henry: “Where are you? Call me.”
Pandy rolled her eyes. She was still feeling annoyed with Henry.
The first few notes of the theme song from the Monica movies suddenly began playing, indicating that she had an actual phone call. Expecting Henry, she was relieved to see it was Suzette.
“Honey, is that you?” Suzette screeched.
“Who else would it be?”
Pandy suddenly remembered Portia’s phone. “I have Portia’s phone,” she announced.
“Good. You can bring it to the Pool Club.”
Pandy looked at the time: ten fifteen. “Are you already there?” She paused, considered the implications, then added, “Please don’t tell me you guys stayed up all night.”
“We didn’t.”
“I was in bed by midnight!” Portia screamed in the background.
“The question is, who was in bed with you?” Suzette quipped. “Honey, come to the pool. Now. We’ve already ordered a bottle of champagne.”
“I don’t have my bathing suit,” Pandy protested mildly.
“Then go buy one, silly,” Suzette hooted and hung up.
* * *
Pandy was barely out of the store when all of a sudden, there it was, roped to the top of a long flatbed truck that was blocking the street: Monica’s missing leg.
“Hey!” Pandy said, waving to the drivers. Two men in white coveralls had gotten out of the truck and were hoisting themselves onto the flatbed.
“What took you so long?” Pandy asked.
“Huh?” The older guy glared.
“Monica’s leg. It’s late.”
“You one of them Monica fans?” the older guy said, sounding slightly annoyed, as if he’d had his fill of Monica fans already.
